


if i could i would (challenge your demons to a duel at dawn)

by amako



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adopted Children, Alistair (Dragon Age) is a Good Friend, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Warden (Dragon Age), Courtship, Dalish Courtship, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dalish Issues, Dalish Lore, Dalish Origin, F/M, Families of Choice, Found Families, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kid Fic, Mahariel & Oghren are best friends, Male-Female Friendship, Mute Warden (Dragon Age), Past Child Abuse, Sign Language, Team Bonding, Zevran Arainai being Zevran Arainai, because that's just who i am, despite appearances this isn't a romance fic, healthy dose of romance though, it's mainly gen, mute character, nothing graphic, those tags are for zevran's childhood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2020-10-24 14:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20707409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amako/pseuds/amako
Summary: “Greetings, Eshalinjune. It is good to see you in better health,” Duncan says, bowing his head slightly.Shalin grits her teeth, the familiar hatred for shemlens fuelling her grief and rage. 'My name is Mahariel,' she signs harshly, movements quick and sharp.ora story of forced enlistment, shem hatred and revenge. Mahariel takes one look at Duncan and decides she will be the fall of the human world.





	1. Ne danse plus à pas de louve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lvllns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lvllns/gifts).

> hi everyone! i'm really happy to post this story. i really wasn't sure about it, but the amazing lvllns convinced me. so here it is! i hope you'll like it. it'll be written mostly in vignettes, so the length isn't going to be consistant, and i don't know what the posting schedule will be because DA isn't my main fandom and i have a lot of active stories in my other one. but anyway, tell me what you think down below, it's always great to hear from you. love <3  
title is from an amazing poem by @mouseymightymarvellous, check her poetry and writing on tumblr!

"Will you be okay, Ishal?"

"Don't worry, da'len, we will take good care of him."

“Ma serannas, ha'hren.”

The child sends a toothless grin to his father, beaming like the sun dancing through the canopy of their forest. _Mythal'enaste_ but that child is a blessing upon their clan and he could not be more proud of calling himself Ishal's father. Pride giving colour to his cheeks as he shoulders his bow and quiver, Tamlen pretends not to feel the adoring look coming from Shalin.

With a final kiss to Ishal's forehead, he makes room for his partner who hugs the boy close, whispering blessings into his tiny pointed ear.

"You'll come back soon, right, mamae?"

Shalin smiles, her eyes crinkling as she looks lovingly at her son. Her hands come up between them as she signs. _'Of course, love. We'll hunt for a few hours, bring back something delicious for the clan to eat and scare away the shems. You won't even notice we're gone.'_

Ishal grins back at her, sending both hers and Tamlen's pulse through the roof. "Can you bring back elfroot? Ha'hren Alifalon promised to teach me how to make healing salves!"

"We'll bring you all the elfroot in the forest, _fenor_," Tamlen promises, bending forward to brush his nose against Ishal's, sending the child into a fit of giggles.

Shalin rises to her feet, tugging Tamlen until he's standing next to her.

_'Alright, we're off. Ishal, be a good boy for ha'hren Adhaleni. We'll be back before sunset.'_

The child nods, and his parents take off for the forest with their heart warm and the feeling of belonging curling up in their chest.

They take on the shems with good fun, both knowing they could cut them to pieces on a bad day and this is an exceptionally good one. Tamlen is snarky and charming and as soon as the shems have ran off back to their stinking civilization, Shalin pushes him against a tree and proceeds to kiss the breath out of him.

Tamlen is laughing under her mouth and her hand finds his hair easily, scratching behind his ear in a way that makes his knees go weak. But she's the strong one in their partnership, so she pushes him harder against the tree until he takes the hint and braces himself against the bark before wrapping his sturdy legs around her waist.

"Am I having an effect on you, _lath_?" Tamlen whispers against her ear, making her shiver from head to toe.

_'Oh if we didn't have to hunt...'_ She trails off, her hands dropping from their signing position to holding on to his broad shoulders, panting against the skin of his throat when he nips at her jawline.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan.**” **With a quiet laugh, Tamlen kisses her cheek, nose and lips in quick succession, before putting some distance between them.

"Alright, that's enough of that," he giggles. She makes grabby hands at him but he bats them away. "Eshalinjune! That's quite enough!" Shalin rolls her eyes at the use of her full name. Stepping away from her, Tamlen grabs his bow, waiting as she does the same.

_'Let's visit the ruins first. We still have a few hours to hunt.'_

Tamlen nods, and with a shared look of mirth, they race each other to the ruins.

Shalin wakes up to the sound of Ishal crying. She springs forward, stopped in her track by the weight of her son who was lying on her chest. A shortness of breath she can barely control has her shaking, and she lifts trembling hands between Ishal and herself to sign hesitant words.

_'Ishal? Do you know where papae is?'_ Her question only makes her child cry harder and her blood turns cold, confirming what she already feared. Her memories are crystal clear, tainted with a rush of adrenaline and fear. Oh, how she wishes her mind was blurry, how she wishes she could forget Tamlen's scream as the eluvian dragged him away from her.

Shalin wraps her shaking arms around Ishal's small body, squeezing him against her. She hums against his ginger hair, the quiet noise all she can do to comfort her child while her hands are busy. Rocking back and forth, she closes her eyes and lets the tears fall, the violent sobs finally winning the battle against her weak will.

She hears before seeing someone approaching, and the smell of moss and wood bark tells Shalin who just arrived.

"Oh, da'len." Opening her eyes, Shalin looks up at Ashalle's face. Still holding onto Ishal, she signs one-handed Ashalle's name, who's face is full of sorrow. The elder woman kneels next to the cot trails her hand up and down Shalin's back in a gesture of comfort, before going through her short hair, the ginger strands catching on Ashalle's hand jewellery.

“Come, child. You've been asleep for two days. Everyone wants to speak with you.”

Shalin nods, swallowing back the chocked sob she can feel building in her throat. Unwilling to be parted from her, Ishal holds on to her chest with the strength of the desperate, and Shalin doesn't even try to untangle herself from her son. She isn't willing to be apart from him either.

Outside of the aravel, she's surprised to see Pol and Junar standing guard with a mutinous expression, weapons at the ready. They turn around when she steps outside, and their expression breaks into a smile. Before they can say anything, Fenarel appears from behind the aravel, looking hurried.

“You're awake! You've the gods' own luck, lethallan.” Fenarel gives her a small smile, that she understands for what it is. Grief has already spread through the camp. “Everyone is worried about you. How do you feel?”

_'How did I get back, Fenarel? Where is—'_ she takes a shaky breath. _'Did you recover his body?'_

Fenarel looks away, and Shalin can hear the hitch in his breath, the heartbroken taint of his voice. “The shem who brought you here saw no sign of him.”

_'What did he say?'_

“Not much. He appeared with you slung over his shoulder, told the Keeper he found you in the ruins and not to expect much of your recovery.” This time, Fenarel's smile is genuine. “I'm glad the shem was wrong, lethallan.”

Shalin nods, but her heart isn't in it. All she can think about is Tamlen's face as he touched the mirror, his scream resonating in her ears in an endless loop. She doesn't understand what happened. She isn't sure she wants to understand. Ishal is hiding his face in her neck, not saying a word, not breathing a sound.

“Well alright then,” Fenarel says, avoiding her eyes. “Come with me, the Keeper wants to see you.”

Shalin complies, feeling dead inside. She doesn't know how she's supposed to live, now. How do you deal with life when half of yourself has been ripped out?

The Keeper looks tired, the signs of exhaustion deeply etched into her old face. Shalin knows how she feels. The weariness inside of her is bone-deep. She looks up at the tall, dark-skinned shem, and can't find it in her to react in any way. Ishal takes one look at the warrior and squeals in terror, trying to hide himself further into his mother's arms. Shalin tightens her grip around him, face blank.

“Oh, da'len. I'm so sorry. My only comfort is to see you up again. Allow me to introduce you to Duncan. He's a Grey Warden, and the one who brought you back to us.”

“Greetings, Eshalinjune. It is good to see you better,” he says, bowing his head slightly.

Shalin grits her teeth, the familiar hatred for the shems fuelling her grief and rage. _'My name is Mahariel,'_ she signs harshly, movements quick and sharp.

“Oh. Of course. I wasn't aware of your particularity.” His voice rises up at the end, inviting a conversation. Shalin snorts, refusing to look at him.

“Duncan has informed me of what he found in the ruins. What you battled against were darkspawns,” the Keeper says softly, like she's softening Shalin for a blow.

And as she listens to Marethari and Duncan tell her that she is Tainted, that Tamlen is truly dead, that this filthy shem wants to take her away, Shalin feels herself fade into the back of her own chest, deep where she won't get out again. Drowned in the voices of a fate she didn't choose, Shalin dies and Mahariel is born.

_'I'm not leaving my clan,'_ she signs to Duncan, and spits at his feet. _'I'd rather die than follow a shem.'_

“Which is what will happen if you do not become a Grey Warden, Mahariel,” Duncan says, unbearably calm. She hates him. She looks at him and she burns with a rage that makes her want to tear his throat out and paint her face with his blood. Oh, how lucky he is that she has her most precious treasure in her arms.

_'Then so be it.'_

Duncan sighs. “I see no other option, then. I invoke the Right of Conscription. By Law, you must come with me.”

Mahariel looks at the Keeper, eyes wild and desperate, but Marethari shakes her head, deeply sorrowful. _'You would take me away against my will?'_

“If I must. We need recruits. You're going to die. There is no one better suited than you.”

Mahariel feels all the fight drain out of her. _'Very well. Let me pack our bags and say goodbye. But be warned. I will make this hell for you. I will make you suffer every step of this journey for taking me away from my people. I will wait until you sleep, months from now, once you have placed your trust in me, and I will gut you with a smile on my face.'_ For the first time since she woke up, Mahariel grins. She can taste the rust between her teeth. _'But alright, Duncan of the Grey Warden. I will pack our bags.'_

She turns around without another sign, Ishal giggling inside her ear. Pride swells inside her chest. They have raised him well.

With all her belongings carefully tucked inside a large, leather backpack, Mahariel gathers the carry-cloth they received as a present for Ishal's name day. Everyone in the clan spend a day embroidering it, to form a beautiful piece in the image of a halla. Ishal is used to it now, so he doesn't even have to be asked before climbing onto Mahariel's crossed legs and wrapping his arms around her neck. Then she takes the cloth and wraps it under his bottom, around his thighs and up his back before tying it around her own back and neck.

It's the most efficient way the Dalish have found to carry children when they move the aravels and the camp. The carrier has almost full range of movement and the child doesn't have to walk. For long distances, the carry-cloth is reinforced and becomes a sling, the child carried on the back this time ; it's unquestionably the easiest way to do things. With a last crushed look for the aravel she lived in for the past ten years, ever since her Bonding with Tamlen in the most beautiful ceremony she could have dreamed of, she steps outside.

Duncan and Marethari are waiting just next to the aravel, but they're not who Mahariel looks at as the clean air of the forest embraces her like it always has. The whole clan is here. Every last one member of Clan Sabrae is lined up in front of her aravel, in two opposites lines as if to protect her steps one last time. Mahariel's breath is caught in her throat, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Mahariel?” Duncan's voice breaks the spell, making Mahariel's hair rise on her skin. She bristles, sending him a viciously poisonous look. He startles a bit, his perfect composure broken by the sheer acid of her stare. She feels viscerally proud of herself. “What is the meaning of this?” he asks, and for a moment she doesn't understand what he means. Then he points at Ishal. _Oh, how dare he._

_'That's right, you haven't been introduced. This is our son, Ishalentarasyl'nin Mahariel. Isn't he the sweetest?'_ She does her son's sign with intent, slow and purposeful as if she was teaching the tongue of hands to a child.

“He can't come with us.” Duncan's tone is final. Mahariel can hear the shocked noises coming from the dozens of elves around them. It's all she can do not to react as well. What he just said is such a horrifying thing she can barely collect herself. How dare he suggest she leave her child behind? Doesn't he know how precious a child is? Doesn't he realize how rare children are amongst the Dalish? _Of course he doesn't_, she thinks, venomous. She turns to look at the Keeper, who looks just as shocked as the rest of the clan

_'Do you see what kind of person wants to take me away, Keeper?'_

“You can't let her go,” Ha'hren Paivel says, raising his voice for the first time in Mahariel's life. “He knows nothing of our ways, he couldn't even protect Tamlen. We lost a valuable hunter and Eshalinjune lost a bonded. He even dares say Ishalentarasyl'nin should leave his mother!”

A murmur of agreement passes through the clan, many heads nodding at what Paivel just said. Duncan looks around, realizing that for all his Grey Warden training, he is severely outnumbered. While he looks away, Mahariel discreetly grabs an arrow from her quiver, balanced on her hip since her back is occupied by her bag.

When Duncan turns back in her direction, the Keeper is already frozen in place. The Warden visibly swallows, his eyes not daring to leave the tip of her arrow, pressed against her jugular.

“What are you doing?”

_'I'm giving you a choice, shem. I hear your order desperately needs recruit, yes? How terrible it would be to loose one, no?'_ Her signs are a bit wonky, because she can only do them one-handed, but she knows the message is getting across.

“You wouldn't. You have a child.”

Mahariel makes a series of breathy sounds, the only thing her throat is capable when she wants to laugh. She isn't the only one. The clan is looking at Duncan with disdain and mockery. The shem truly knows nothing and Sabrae is proud of their member for standing up.

_'If I die, Ishal will go back to being raised collectively, like he was before we Joined ourselves to him. But as long as I breathe, Ishal goes where I go. Make your choice.'_

She can see that Duncan is confused, but he is in no way deserving of a lesson in Dalish culture, so she isn't about to explain their ways to him. The only thing she cares about is—

“Very well. The child can come.” Mahariel sends him a triumphant look, putting the arrow back into her quiver. “I hope you will not cause more problems.”

Mahariel's grin is feral as she answers. _'You made your choices by taking mine away, shem. Take responsibility for your cruelty_.'

Duncan doesn't answer, instead turning away and going to the edge of the camp, obviously waiting for her. Mahariel faces her clan again, the emotion coming back in a rush. She walks in the space they've left for her, stopping by each one to clasp their forearm and brush her forehead against theirs.

When she comes to Fenarel, she kisses his forehead instead, and in returns, the hunter kisses both her closed eyelids gently.

“By Andruil, I bless you, Eshalinjune,” Fenarel whispers, his eyes a promise she holds on to with everything she has. “Dareth shiral.”She nods, her mouth quivering, before moving to face Pol. The boy looks so young, so lost, that she draws him into a hug, careful of Ishal strapped between them.

Pol chokes on a sob, repeating a litany of sorry into her throat. She doesn't know why he's apologizing, and he probably doesn't know either. Strangely, she still appreciates the sentiment.

And finally, she is faced with Ashalle. The elder woman looks the way she's always looked, for as long as Mahariel remembers being in the clan. Ashalle nursed her, soothed her nightmares, taught her how to blend into the shadows. She taught Mahariel Vir Tanadhal, and spoke to her of the gods so she could choose her vallaslin with honour and confidence. Mahariel might have been raised by the entire clan, like all children are unless they are Joined with parents like Ishal has been with them, but Ashalle is the one she calls in her thoughts—

_'Mamae,'_ Mahariel, _Shalin_ signs, feeling as young as Pol, as young as Ishal.

“Be well, lath. Mythal'enaste.” Ashalle embraces her gently.

_'Dareth shiral.' _

Then Mahariel steps back, taking one last look at her entire clan, gathered to see her off. Duncan comes to stand next to her, and as they turn around to leave the forest behind, Clan Sabrae starts singing.

Mahariel wraps her arms around her son as _In Uthenera_ echoes around them, sobbing without shame, and follows Duncan as he takes her away from her home.

_hahren na melana sahlin_  
_emma ir abelas_  
_souver'inan isala hamin_  
_vhenan him dor'felas_  
_in uthenera na revas_  
  
_vir sulahn'nehn_  
_vir dirthera_  
_vir samahl la numin_  
_vir lath sa'vunin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some translations:  
lath: love  
fenor: precious, beloved  
Eshalinjune: child of june, born with June's blessing/favor  
Ishalentarasyl'nin: son of the storm (isha'len : son and tarasyl'nin : storm)
> 
> title of chapter is from the song "Musique basse" by Eddy de Pretto. it translates to "Stop dancing with the feet of a wolf" and it's also a word play because "with feet of a wolf" is an idiom meaning to be very discreet/stealthy when walking. so the whole sentence basically means at the same time "You should not hide yourself/be silent" + "You are a wolf and you should be proud and dance like you're proud of it". so yeah, i thought i'd suit Shalin's personality very much. (oh and also go listen to the song, it's fantastic, Eddy de Pretto is a gay song writer and singer and I love him so much)
> 
> alright! did you like it? what do you think of Mahariel's personality, how she reacts to Duncan? i based her on the dialogue choices you can make when he recruits you and you refuse, because i always take those. also i don't really like duncan lol. do you like ishal? and mahariel/tamlen's relationship? can't wait to hear what you think!


	2. Ostagar

Ostagar looks exactly like Mahariel imagined. Big, filled to the brim with shems, with a rotten smell of sweat, blood, sex, shit and darkspawn. It's disgusting.

She tightens her hold on Ishal's carrier, folding her head over his to protect him as much as possible from the sight and the stench. She needs to find a tent soon so she can take care of him. Duncan made them travel at an insane pace that tired Mahariel greatly, having to carry not only her pack but her toddler while grief ate at her from the inside, making every step a battle to fight against herself.

On top of that, Ishal became sick around the tenth day of travel and it took them five more to get to Ostagar with an ill child and a bastard shem hell bent on making good travel time no matter the state his prisoners (because they are nothing else) would be in at arrival.

Mahariel's hatred for Duncan has grown tenfold during the journey, from his complete disrespect of nature and barbaric hunting methods, to his lack of empathy and ridiculous self-importance. Now that they are finally here, she desperately needs a tent to, hopefully, begin treating Ishal in an effective manner. And if she's only to be given a sleeping bag, then she will take it and go sleep in the Korcari Wilds. She fears nature as much as she fears Ishal armed with a stick, and she'll take the wilds before shems any day.

Duncan leads her on a bridge, where she can't help but look at the valley bellow, and the thousands of torches flickering in the darkness. Her lips curl in disdain. Before she can move strategically to obscure Ishal's line of sight, their path is blocked by two men in bulking armour. One of them is dressed head to toe in gold and white gold plates, making him look so ridiculous Mahariel can't help herself. She laughs, that strange, breathy no-sound Tamlen would tell her is absolutely delightful.

Following her lead, because every occasion to be happy is to be taken where Ishal is concerned, her son giggles, joyful and grin full of tiny teeth echoing her own. The three shems around her stare with no amount of anger on Duncan's part, and confusion from the other two, which only amuses her more.

It's in hissing noises and irritating voice that Duncan tells her the shem she just laughed in the face of is the king. Mahariel stops smiling and, as excruciatingly slowly as she can, looks him up and down, in all his golden glory. Then when her eyes meet his again, she spits in his face without breaking eye contact once.

Under Duncan's spluttering, the surrounding guards' threatening yells and the king's hiccuping orders not to attack her, Mahariel's eyes cross those of the other man who remains silent. His gaze is calm, calculating, but not once does he look down on Mahariel. His stare speaks of equality, of evaluating a potential ally or opponent for their fair worth. Mahariel takes an instant liking to the man.

She nods carefully in his direction, satisfied but not surprised to see him nod in return, then shoulders her way past the king and into the camp, leaving Duncan behind without a single ounce of care. Shifting between patches of shadows, dancing her way from tree to fallen statue, she makes her way without anyone noticing her.

As she walks up another slope of smooth stones, polished by use and time, Mahariel takes the time to properly introduce Ishal to the world around him. It's something she likes doing, but more so enjoyed watching Tamlen have his fun with. By virtue of having a voice, he's always been much more suited to the exercise, no matter that Ishal already knows his fair share of tongue of hands.

Her heart breaks once more, for what feels like the hundredth time of the day. A keening sound is ripped from her throat, raw and heartwrenching, full of her endless sorrow and all-consuming grief. She's immediately frozen, mouth open and eyes just as wide. Blinking rapidly over her tears, she tries to call Tamlen's name, one she knows better than her own despite never having spoke it. But nothing comes out. She tries Ishal's name, her own, Ashalle's, all without success. Her singing is still a silent, breathy sound.

But she could swear a noise came out of her throat. Mahariel absolutely wants to investigate this further, but she's recalled back to the present by Ishal's small whine, shaking her back to focus and her mission to find a place to take care of him. She resumes signing to Ishal every monument, plant or person they pass by, as Tamlen would have done with his beautiful voice.

They would call it "telling him the world", as if they were telling him a story, but made of living things and ever-changing surroundings. It is, in part, the reason why Ishal already speaks so well and can communicate basic ideas through his signs when he needs or wants to.

Reaching the top of the stone slope, Mahariel falls straight into an argument between two shems, quite obviously mage and warrior, from their respective robes and armour. The mage appears to be quite cross with the warrior who takes it all with a relaxed, if irreverent attitude.

In the clan, those blessed with the ancestors' gift are loved and respected, and they love and respect in return, doing their best to use their magic to do good by their kin. Mahariel has never trusted shem mages. Not since an apostate cluster decided to attack the clan during June's Harvest, the annual gathering of dalish craftsmen in a celebration in the god's honour.

Clan Halla'in lost their master of crafts that day, and the apprentices of clan Lliun and Sahme were killed as well. Not only was it a tragedy for the clans, to loose valued and loved members, but those were craftsmen, the guardians of the ancestral knowledge the Dalish fight so hard to preserve.

Their mistrust of shems, already great, only grew after the attack, and they became wary of the mages they used to tolerate for sharing the same gift as the People. Mahariel fought hard that day, more than one mage falling to her blades, and she had to watch the young boy from clan Sahme die before her eyes, spine snapping in half after an apostate threw a fist of the earth to shatter the poor boy's back.

Clutching Ishal against her breast, she approaches cautiously, not able to turn around without being noticed and thinking she'd rather not turn her back on two frustrated, angry shems.

The mage notices her first, his sharp, furious gaze boring down holes into her skull. Facing the mage, the warrior has to turn around to see what caught the other's attention, and his face is a study in contrasts compared to what is displayed on the other shem's. He looks... almost delighted? As if her sole arrival was enough to get him out of a lifetime of misery. Mahariel can't help but think he's pretty, for a shem.

She's well aware their species have very different beauty standards. Where the Dalish don't care all that much, in all fairness, given that they must marry and have children to pass on the dalish line and keep their legacy alive, the shems have the luxury of being picky. The few times her kind treat with theirs, often in trade and business, she's been a witness of the wandering eyes (and sometimes, though not for long, hands) of the men and women coming to barter.

When the clan has no other choice but to open shop near a city, because they're in desperate need of something only shemlens could get them, they unfortunately have to deal with the disgusting interest the merchants don't (or won't) hide. Though once a few of the wandering hands have been removed and taken as token by the offended parties, the issue usually resolves itself quite easily.

Mahariel knows that shems favour small, thin women, with round faces and big eyes, and quiet dispositions. The men considered attractive are, in total opposition, broad-shouldered tall oafs with about as little brain as their purse is big. She can't help but think it all a bit... shallow. Tamlen and her were lucky, in that regard, that he thought on her and she thought on him. They both had others think on them as well, though Tamlen won that particular tally, but they were both considered interesting matches.

Mahariel is— or, maybe, was? (the thought makes her shudder, bile in her throat and the shake of her arm wanting to pick up her blade and cover it in poison and pass it through Duncan's throat slowly and watch the light go out in his beady eyes and—)

Mahariel was head of the hunters, while she waited for Valen to finish his apprenticeship so she could replace him at Master Ilen's side. Tamlen taught the children how to track a prey, use the sun as a marker and honour the gods in your every action up until time would come to choose a vallaslin. He would have become a revered hahren, she's sure of it. Mahariel has to force a breath in, wondering, as always lately, how it is possible for her heart to keep breaking a little more each day.

The skills they both had, on top of their physical condition, made them great matches. It had been established long ago by the Keeper that whatever caused her throat to close and keep the words in had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with a curse even their beloved Keeper couldn't lift. Given that the Dalish had always known and taught the tongue of hands, it had never been an issue and is probably the reason why Tamlen had won the tally with barely a few more propositions of match than her.

But they found each other, when Tamlen began thinking on her and decided the best way to get her attention would be to act like a mating wolf and bring her the product of his hunts, then the baskets he filled while gathering so the stocks in her aravel would always be full. She had been incredibly insulted, at the time, thinking he found her to be incapable, that she was a poor provider to the clan and needed help to meet her share of weekly participation in the feeding roster.

Mahariel grits her teeth, swallowing the rest of the memory in ; angry at herself, once more, for thinking about her lost love when her first priority should be to find the opportunity to get the better of the Warden and escape with Ishal and go back to the clan. She will have time for mourning later, as should be. She will honour Tamlen the way the most incredible elf of all the Dales deserves, and it would start with getting his son out of a war zone and back to the people he belongs with.

On instinct, she takes a step back when the pretty shem takes one in her direction. He may have what dalish people would consider attractive features, it will not make her trust him. Though his high cheekbones and sharp jaw, with the star-skin so popular amongst her people, has her wondering if he might have elvhen ancestry. The only shemlens she's ever seen with star-skin either tattooed it on their cheeks to fake it or they had it because of long and repeated exposure to the sun, which this one, while having a golden taint to it, certainly has nothing like a brown, sun-blessed skin.

Tamlen had star-skin, all across his cheeks and nose. Herself has been blessed to have it all over her face, shoulders, arms and torso. She knows to be quite the sight when the clan goes to swim in nearby rivers. _Oh, Tamlen_, she sighs to herself, chocking on grief again.

“I'm sorry my lady, are you lost by any chance? The infirmary is all the way back to the northern entrance and the king's tent is next to the pyre.” Well, he does sound genuine telling her this, though she cannot pinpoint what he could possibly mean with those indications.

_'I am not lost, shem. I am going to the Wardens' quarters.'_ She really is not, but she hopes the name of the Wardens will impress enough that he'll let her through without further questions.

The shem squints at her hands throughout the whole thing, struggling to follow, until the mage makes an infuriated noise, raising his hands in the air with eyes rolling so far back they probably found Fen'harel.

“The Wardens are more insane that I could ever imagine! A woman, on a battlefield! A knife-ear, nonetheless, with a child to top it all off! This is absolutely ridicu—”

Before he can finish his sentence, Mahariel is pressed head to toe against his disgusting, vile body, her tall, broad-shouldered frame towering over the man while her knife nicks into his left ear.

He screams like a gutted pig, tries to get away, but she drops the knife into her hip holder and signs with her free hand:

'_You call me, my people, or any brother and sister from the city knife-ear again, and I will carve both of yours to match mine. Clear?'_ The man nods desperately, white as a halla. _'Now translate what I just said to the other shem and ask him if he knows the tongue of hands.'_

The mage repeats her words with a stammering voice that makes her entirely too satisfied. Not looking away, she makes an impatient gesture, while the pretty shem scrambles to get besides the mage, in her line of sight. His hands are up in a placating manner, eyes wide open.

“Why don't we all calm down, yeah? I'm sure my magical friend didn't mean it, right?”

Mahariel is pleased to hear the threat in the shem's voice, and to see the pig she's still touching squeak like a rat.

“I- I didn't mean it.”

The shem nods, then looks her intently in the eyes, his hands coming up to sign. Pleasantly surprised, she pays attention to his clumsy, but confident hands, absent-mindedly letting go of the mage who runs away without looking back.

'_I understand the tongue of hands. You are-' _He frowns, looking down at his hands like they've personally betrayed him. “I'm sorry, I don't know how to sign Warden.”

Mahariel chuckles silently, despite herself, before showing him the sign she used later. '_Well, I need to go. Farewell, shem.'_

“Wait! I'll come with you, show you around.”

Mahariel curses in her head, her plan to go somewhere quiet and forget all about the cursed Wardens coming to a halt. In a desperate last attempt, she asks him why he wants to come.

“Well, I'm a Warden too! Didn't Duncan tell you? I'll be at your Joining, you're the newest recruit, right?”

Against her best attempts, she blanches, feeling her options slipping through her fingers. Desperation clawing at her chest with her heart beating a rhythm of panic on her ribs, she takes a careful step back. Already, her hand slips behind her back and into her weapon pouch, ready to throw a paralytic at him to get away. He was civil, so she's not about to use acid, but there is no way he's stopping her from taking care of Ishal.

He must have caught something in her careful movements, or maybe he's just this good of a warrior or people reader. Right before her hand wraps itself around the flask, he throws himself at her, tackling her. In a fraction of a second, he's slipped his leg behind hers, stopping her fall while wrapping an arm around her waist, both pressing himself against her flank to keep her upright and not crush her son, and to rip the flask from under her fingers.

Too stunned to react, as it all happened in a split moment, Mahariel stares into his eyes, her breathing erratic and panic ripping its way out of her pumping blood and seeping into every bit of her body.

“Hey, hey, it's okay, breathe. Breathe, everything is fine, I'm not going to hurt you, I promise you. I swear, I don't want to hurt you nor your baby, I just wanted to stop you from attacking me. Okay? Hey, breathe, come on. Breathe in, yeah. I'll release you in a second, I promise, just breathe, breathe out, yes. Good.”

She gets a grip on her abused lungs, his words helping her against her will. Ishal is laughing at the faces the shem is making, and hearing the sweet noise finishes calming her down. Per his word, the shem lets her go. She can't even get away, her legs shaking too bad. Mahariel can only watch the shem's face pale, a second before she drops to the ground, her legs giving out.

She can't do this anymore. It all comes crashing down on her, and she's suddenly bawling her eyes out. She's crying so bad she can't breathe. Her arms wrap around Ishal, rocking herself and him back and forth. Everything, from the absolute exhaustion of the journey, her worry for Ishal's sickness, the desperation at being forced to leave her clan and everything she's ever known. It's all crumbling down like a dying out fire, adding itself to the pyre of her grief until her sobs are so violent she's shaking from head to toe, bouts of crying racking through her body in destructive waves.

Rattled, Ishal begins crying in earnest, and only then does she notice that the shem crouched near them as soon as she fell, because he tries to shush Ishal, reassuring words whispered into the pointed ear of her son.

“M-mamae,” he sobs, “what's happen-n-iing...” The shem's face crumbles at the realization that, of course, Ishal doesn't speak Common, so he's not understanding a word the shem is saying to calm him down.

That, of all things, is what manages to break through Mahariel's crippling grief. She wipes her eyes, dry sobs still running like tremors through her limps, her breathing stuttering.

“Can I help? Please tell me there's something I can do. I can't- I hate seeing people cry, it's my only weakness.”

The stupid attempt at humour makes her look up, her heart settling down slightly. This shem is being uncharacteristically kind to her, and it's both confusing and worrying. But right now, all she wants is to find some place quiet and calm, to look after Ishal, and Fen'Harel forbid, get some sleep. It's that desperation that breaks her resolve, and makes her tell the truth.

'_I don't want to go to the Wardens'. Ishalentarasyl'nin is sick and I need to take care of him. Is there anywhere peaceful I can go to do that?_'

The shem looks at her with serious eyes, before nodding once, as if her honesty explains things to him.

“Yeah, follow me. I won't tell Duncan... it'll be okay.” She signs her thanks, accepting his hand when he offers it to get her up. She rocks Ishal against her, her fingers tapping on his back a rhythm she came up with to replace singing him a lullaby. He recognizes it quickly, and with the rocking, it seems to soothe him enough to cuddle against her chest, his little fist against one red eye while the other allows him to suck on his thumb. She kisses his fuzzy forehead and follows the shem.

“Oh, by the way. My name is Alistair.”

He looks behind his shoulder at her, his pretty features reminding her of home in a way nothing since she left has been able to.

Something breaks inside of her, the reality of her fate destroying something permanently into the core of her being. She feels numb, defeated. She looks down at her hands, realizing she hasn't signed her gifted name since leaving Clan Sabrae. It isn't for shems to learn and so she's been using her second name.

In a move now becoming routine, she spells out M-A-H-A-R-I-E-L before doing the sign for it, her second and third finger joined together drawing an invisible line of paint from her temple to her jaw in what used to be the war paint of her family when they fought for the Dales.

Alistair smiles softly, nodding once.

“It's nice to meet you, Mahariel.”

The thought doesn't hurt as much as it perhaps should, she thinks as she can't stop her mind from returning the sentiment.


	3. Bend but never break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I hope you're all safe and healthy during these difficult times. I'm really happy I can bring you this right now, because hopefully it'll distract you and keep you entertained for a little while. I know I look forward to more content from my favourite creators to stay sane. This is a reaaaally long one and I wanted to post it sometime this month lol so I didn't comb it through for mistakes ; for that, I apologize, but hopefully having it will make up for it! Please tell me what you think, I'm really looking forward to your comments! As you'll see, I'm taking a turn from the canon story, for the purpose of the story I want to tell, but don't worry, this will still follow canon events (for the most parts). I just need a few changes to make it all work. Here's to hoping you like what I did with the canon prologue!
> 
> translations  
aneth ara: medium-formal greeting  
Ma melava halani: "you helped me"  
Ma serannas: "thank you"  
Mythal'enaste: blessed by Mythal

Ishal is sleeping against her side, bundled up in furs and blankets. She's sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, mending a hole in her green tunic. The silence is peaceful, surrounding her like an embrace. For the first time, probably in her entire life, she is in the presence of a shem, and she doesn't mind. Maybe it's because he looks like a half-blood. Maybe it's because he was so kind to them, hiding them away so they could rest. Somehow, Mahariel finds that she doesn't care that much.

Alistair is stirring something in the pot he set up over the fire, having promised her something filling and warm while she took care of Ishal. He has a nasty cold, with a fever running too high for her liking. She's brewed him an elfroot potion and applied salve on his chest to hopefully prevent a cough from following the runny nose. She's starving now, and whatever Alistair is making smells incredible.

Mahariel isn't in any hurry to go back to camp, although Alistair explained to her all he could about the Wardens and the Joining, and she knows there is no escaping it. She'll have her chance to take off during the battle, or maybe after if she hides well enough. But she's aware of the Taint crawling through her blood, she can feel it sometimes, when she breathes wrong, or when her joints shoot bolts of pain through her limbs ; pain she shouldn't be experiencing, young and fit as she is.

Alistair shares a bit about what it's like for him, and it's really the same as she's going through, although he's having it worse than her, obviously. Mahariel never longed for a voice, never truly regretted not being able to communicate with sound, but she's never been more glad to be mute than when she realizes how much Alistair idolizes Duncan.

She's becoming fond of the boy, truly, but her feelings will not change the fate she will inflict on the senior Warden. He took her away from her clan, was responsible for stopping the search for Tamlen, and is now forcing her into a war she's in no way responsible for. Duncan will die at her hand and there is nothing the pretty shem can do to stop that.

“Mamae?”

Mahariel looks down immediately, the soft voice of her sweet child drawing her from her dark thoughts. Smiling at her son, she gently puts a strand of copper hair behind his pointy ear. He's brushing the sleep off his eyes with his tiny fists, pouting slightly. She's choking on her love for him, stomach knotted in familiar ways now, feeling a little bit like she could die from this, from watching her son wake up and say hello to the universe with all the pureness of his heart.

Tamlen's absence is a torn limb, a brutal, excruciating pain she feels deep in her bones, like a missing piece of her soul, burned flesh, air robbed from her lungs, an echo in her ears she never manages not to listen to. Song of death, a goodbye to Tamlen she never got to make, the tongue of her people making a slave of the wind to sing to her the departure of her Bonded.

She swallows around the urge to vomit, laboured breathing her enemy in the battle to care for a son who lost his father. Mahariel holds her hands in front of her, pushing them into submission until they stop shaking before signing. _'Do you feel better, fenor?'_

“Head hurts,” Ishal mumbles, half-signing, half-speaking aloud. “It's cold, too.”

Mahariel makes a face. _'I know, lethallin. I'm sorry I couldn't care for you when we travelled. I will, now.'_

His voice is only a whisper when he buries his face into her palm, kissing her wrist. “It's okay, mamae.” She giggles, unashamedly. “Is the shem gone?”

Ishal's voice is cautious, low, the fear of shemlens drilled into him from birth like any Sabrae child.

Mahariel nods, before pointing to Alistair, knowing Ishal is talking about Duncan. The young Warden is failing at appearing as if he isn't paying attention to their conversation, and Mahariel indulges him.

_'This is Alistair,'_ she signs, first spelling his name, then using the sign she came up with for him: fist curled tight, against the chest on the heart's place, then drawing a diagonal down to the right hip as if miming a shield's length and width.

Mahariel watches fondly as Ishal repeats the gesture, mouthing the Warden's name at the same time. Despite the tongue of hands and Ishalentarasyl'nin speaking elven, Alistair catches the subject of the discussion and smiles tentatively at her son. She tends to forget that he knows some signs, if only the barest of minimums.

Ishal gives her a look, his young face already so wary of the world. Sometimes, Mahariel gets so enraged at Thedas, at the ugly situations and uglier mindsets history forced on the people, going as far as splitting them in groups despising each others. She's so angry that her son has to grow up knowing he's in constant danger and no one will ever accept him but his own people.

So just this once, she decides to risk it. Just this once, she wants to teach her son there can be careful trust. She plasters the brightest smile on her face and nods firmly, soon enough rewarded by the wide answering grin on Ishal's face and his immediate interest in Alistair. His curiosity is the greatest gift he can give her, after his apathetic hours during their journey. She cannot blame him; for days on end, she was but a husk of herself, grieving a Bonded, a best friend, a clansman, as well as her entire Clan. At least she's trying now.

Trying to roll out of the furs keeping him from pestering the Warden with questions as he would ha'hren Alifalon, Ishal crawls through pelts and cloth until Mahariel tuts him back to his bedroll, putting her palm on his belly to stop him from moving. With his complaining as background noise, Mahariel has to pleasure to watch all two metres of a broad-shouldered shem fall over himself in his rush to get to her son's side. Despite her constant cautiousness when dealing with their kind, she can't help but be glad she let herself trust this one to some extent.

“Hello,” Alistair says in the tongue of the Elvhenan, surprising both of them. Ishal squeals in absolute glee and that draws a silent, breathy laugh from Mahariel. Which, in turn, plasters an irremediably pleased expression on Alistair's pretty face.

“My name is Alistair,” he continues, before switching back to Common, “and that is the extent of my knowledge in elven,” he ends. Mahariel mock-applauds him, although the sentiment behind is genuine.

“Do you speak Common?” he asks Ishal, who in turns looks at Mahariel. She absent-mindedly translated to him while shaking her head in Alistair's direction. There is no reason they would have taught their child to communicate with people who would inevitably turn out to be enemies, good communication or not. Alistair's face falls, obvious disappointment echoing Ishal's own expression.

_'I'll translate,'_ she signs to both, who seem to find that reason enough to go back to wide, blinding smiles. Mahariel shakes her head, already seeing the problems coming once Alistair's barren knowledge of the tongue of hands fails him.

“I'll start! What's your name?”

That is probably the only thing her son can say and understand in Common, and she doesn't even know where he picked it up because it absolutely can't come from them. She's not taking any oath over his impressive swearing vocabulary, however.

“My name is Ishalentarasyl'nin Mahariel of Clan Sabrae!” he says excitedly, his pronunciation way off but understandable enough.

_He looks so proud_, Mahariel thinks fondly, letting out a silent laugh.

“It sounds beautiful! Does it mean anything? And your other names?”

Mahariel looks up to Alistair, trying to hide her surprise. Either this man is the best liar this side of Ferelden, or he is genuinely interested in their culture, which she obviously finds reasons to doubt. She feels a pang, near her heart, at the fact that she has an easier time believing the former than the latter. _What a world we live in, _she thinks sadly, biting her lip softly.

Oblivious to what his mother is thinking, Ishal gives her an expectant look, waiting for her translation, which she provides, a bit shell-shocked. A quick thinker nonetheless, she adds that she'll answer the question for him, since she knows it just as well. He nods, looking at Alistair's face expectantly.

'_Ishalentarasyl'nin means son of the storm. Tamlen had Old Magic, not very powerful, but enough that he was able to call on lighting, in some occasions. When we Joined with Ishal, he was so excited he accidentally called upon his power and he shocked me so bad I was still seizing days later. My eyebrows were completely burned off, and my arms' hair too!'_

Ishal and her laugh easily at the familiar story, her own silent laughter a balm to her grief, the first time she's able to find joy in remembrance since she lost her love. Alistair looks between the both of them, his expression unsure enough to confuse Mahariel a bit.

“I'm sorry, I didn't get some of that. I don't know a few of those signs,” he apologizes, looking contrite as he tries to mimic the unknown gestures. The first one, while clumsy, is obviously Tamlen's name-sign. She instinctively does it again, slower, so used to it being second nature to her: the second and third fingers of her right hand tracing the shell of her ear, then drawing a smile from left to right on her own lips. _The smiling Elvhenan_. Then, for clarity, she spells out his name, a noise of understanding leaving Alistair's mouth.

He repeats the sign once, waiting for her nod of approval before attempting the second sign he didn't understand, and that one is enough to rob the smile from both Mahariel and Ishal's face. Alistair looks between them with an increasingly distressed expression as he realizes he must have made a mistake, no matter that neither is blaming him.

'_This is an indicator of a past state.'_

Alistair only looks more confused. “Past state? What does that mean?”

_'It means Tamlen is dead.'_

Mahariel turns away from him, curled in a ball in a corner of the tent, before he can reply anything. Blessed be the shem, because he leaves her be. She feels like she's been crying for weeks without stopping, new tears digging into her cheeks where the old ones have barely dried. She crouches on her heels, hidden by the rough fabric of the tent, her arms going around her knees. It's like she's dying. It feels empty and dry and dead, like nothing is left inside of her.

With her heart aching and her head throbbing, Mahariel falls asleep under a minute.

* * *

She's woken up by the noises of commotion from outside. First, angry whispers, quickly turning into muttered half-shouts. Before long, Alistair is yelling, a deep, more quiet voice occasionally answering in between bouts of shouting. She doesn't recognize it from the inside of the tent, but she has her suspicions.

“Mamae?”

Mahariel turns to look at the other side of the tent's interior, founding her son sitting cross-legged next to the fire. He's stirring something inside a heavy iron pot, while next to the pot a flat stone is laid over the circle of campfire cooking three eggs. Mahariel smiles, signing a hello and a simple check of his well-being.

“I'm very sad,” he says, sniffing a bit, with his eyes on the pot. “I miss papae.”

'_Me too, fenor. I miss him so much.'_

A small whimper is her only warning before Ishal runs into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably against her shoulder. She cushions the impact, immediately holding him close, rocking him gently. Her heart is shattered, the sounds of grief from her son piercing her through and through.

But her brave, precious Ishal doesn't let himself cry, this little child of hers who suffered so much and suffers still. This child of hers and Tamlen's love pulls himself together, far too old for his age when he scrubs his eyes dry viciously before going back to the fire. She scoots over to him and he hands her a large chard leaf. Mahariel opens her leather backpack, taking out the herbs bread and deer jerky she brought from home.

Ishal spoons some of the stew in a wooden bowl, placing the cooked egg on the leaf she holds. They eat in silence, at least on their part, Alistair and who she assumes is Duncan still arguing outside the tent. When they're done, Mahariel gives some serious consideration to the idea of just walking out of the tent and ignoring both shems, but she's not confident in Duncan's restraint so far and she would never forgive herself if something happened to Ishal because of her.

Instead, she secures her bedroll to the top of her backpack, Ishal following suit by gathering his things and closing his own backpack. Both shoulder it and Ishal opens his arms for Mahariel to pick him up. She's so proud of him, and she reminds herself to tell him soon, because she doesn't want him to think he's not doing enough to make their exile bearable. He's like Tamlen, in this way, always thinking of others before himself.

With a grounding breath, she focuses on the power beating inside of her, this internal sense of Nature and the spirits, and in the next second, she's gone. With Ishal pressed so close to her, he's included in her invisibility. Light on her feet, she walks out the tent, grateful for its opening large enough for her not to disturb the canvas, and she walks away.

Only a few minutes are enough to get out of camp and into the Wilds. No one notices her leaving, except for a few Chasind warriors who don't say anything. With the noise of the army far, and all the sounds of the Wilds surrounding them, Mahariel allows herself to relax and drop the invisibility. Ishal jumps to the ground, removing his shoes in quick movements, looking excited. She can't help her own smile, happy to be doing this with him, to have this small part of her life back home respected even so far away from her people.

She lays down a woven blanket, taking out crystals, preserved flowers, herbs, feathers, trinkets, charms, Ishal methodically picking them up one by one and placing them on the blanket in specific places. Finally, she takes a bone statuette of June and puts it at the end of the blanket, facing them. This was one part of her bonding acceptance present. Tamlen gifted it to her with his offer of courtship, and when she took the present, it sealed her agreement to bond with him.

Tamlen had gone deep into the forest, to find a sylvan elder. He asked the sylvan for its bark and the tree spirit asked for the head of the alpha of a local wolf pack in exchange. Tamlen brought the head back, along with deep wounds that almost cost him his life after he managed to drag himself back to camp. With the bark of the sylvan, a bone from the alpha's leg, ironbark and the antlers of a halla, he went to work. From Master Ilen, he learned how to use ironbark for his specific purpose, knowing that this would take him months of work. He went to Maren for her knowledge of halla, to Merrill for her magic and ha'hren Paivel for the stories of old.

With the wolf bone, he carved a statue of June, Mahariel's Protector and Gatekeeper, the god of her markings and the one she honours primarily through her offerings. Then he crafted her a headpiece for their bonding ceremony. With the sylvan bark, he made a circlet, then made the antlers into pieces that he polished into shiny, white beads that he encased into the circlet. On the inside, he carved a prayer to June and Dirthamen, his god. From the ironbark, he forged a vambrace and decorated it with the symbols of June and Dirthamen, the Knot and the Crow, and left an empty space near her wrist. He told her jokingly that he would complete it when their children chose their god.

It had been many moons since Sabrae had last seen such a bonding gift, because of the complexity of the work. But it had also been many moons since Sabrae last saw a hunter who chose June as a Protector, and the only appropriate gift for an intended bonded like Mahariel is something crafted, in honour of her chosen god. And so Tamlen crafted. He crafted something so intricate and beautiful, complicated and honouring of her very nature, that her mind became as silent as her voice when presented with them.

How could she say no, then, when Tamlen offered her her own soul on a plater, in all its beautiful details, feeling like she was looking at herself in a mirror? How could she say no, then, when Tamlen told her she was free to keep the gifts and refuse the bonding, if she didn't want him, going against tradition that said to give the gifts back. He told her they would have no meaning if she wasn't wearing them, as he crafted them for her, putting all his intent into the awe-inspiring presents.

So of course, Mahariel said yes. Her bonding circlet is safely stored in one of the many pockets of her pack. The vambrace, she wears every day, as it is a gift meant to be worn, to protect her hand when handling her bow. The statue she uses for her prayers, the ones she's slowly teaching Ishalentarasyl'nin so he can introduce himself to the gods and begin to shape his relationship with them.

As she finishes setting up the altar, Ishal lights up a small incense cone and walks in a circle around the blanket and her in the middle, whispering a prayer for the gods to protect them as they pray and to bless their circle. Then he puts the incense on the makeshift altar, using a piece of bark as a holder. Mahariel watches him go through the steps she learned as a child, the kindness of Ashalle surrounding her in a spiritual embrace.

Ha'hren Paivel let her sleep in his aravel when Ashalle went out with the other gatherers for small trips around wherever they were camping at the time, and she heard him pray many times, until he eventually taught her the words that Ashalle would later expand on when she showed her how to put an altar together and what each part meant. By the time she received her vallaslin, Mahariel knew everything her parents would have taught her had they been alive, and when she chose June to protect and guide her through life, Junar told her and Fenarel everything there was to know about the worship of the God of Crafts, the specific prayers, items and offerings that would grant the god's favour, as well as the actions one could take in everyday life to honour June.

It brought Fenarel and Mahariel together, in the best of ways. As children, they used to fight a lot, because both had lost their parents before they could know them. Where Ashalle had took Mahariel in, Fenarel had been cared for by Ha'hren Vinell, but as is the way of the Dalish, neither Ashalle nor Vinell acted as their parents. Orphans are never really considered as such, raised by the clan in equal measure but entrusted to one or two people for feeding and simple teachings.

Mahariel remembers how jealous they became of each other as the years went by, comparing every second of attention they received to see who was most loved by the clan, who was most cared for. She recalls harsh words and broken hearts, feeling like she was the lowest of the low, the least loved of all. She would hide behind an aravel whenever someone was teaching to Fenarel, or when he would get his bowl of food, watching ravenously to see if he got more food than her, if her got more praise for his actions.

But there weren't many children in the clan, when Mahariel was little. They moved a lot, after hers and Fenarel's parents' death, because all four of them had been killed by shemlens in the same raid. With how little time they spent in the same place and the dangers of the road, the Keeper had asked of bonded pairs to drink a tea that would stop them from becoming parents, and no other children was born after Variel, the youngest of all.

So as Mahariel grew, her friends were few and far between. Maren was the oldest of the children by only a few years, then Fenarel, and a year younger, both Mahariel and Tamlen, closely followed by Variel. Five children, having to stick together, to find it in their heart to be friends despite differences and temper.

She's glad now, that they managed to put the bitterness and jealousy aside, when Fenarel celebrated his first moon blessing. It was his tenth spring, and Mahariel was sulking a few knots away from camp. No matter that she would get the same celebration next year, it still felt like a final proof that she wasn't worth as much as Fenarel in the eyes of the clan.

She had nested herself inside a hollow tree, shivering from the cold of the lingering winter weather in those first few days of spring. As caught up in her thoughts as she was, she didn't hear the growls of warning until it was too late. She screamed in fear at the first swipe of a massive paw, bigger than her soft, childish round face.

She pushed herself against the back of the tree, but the hole wasn't big and she couldn't get any further. The enormous timber wolf rammed against the entrance, thankfully too small for him, and stroke again. This time, his claws caught the meat of her thigh, carving four deep cuts into her skin and muscle. She screamed again, this time in agony, the pain blinding her as she fell on her side, curling around her wounded thigh.

Half-delirious with pain, she didn't see the wolf back away, yelping, before running away. She only noticed the hole darkening again with the shape of a body, before passing out. She would learn later, after waking up, that Fenarel had left the camp to practice with the bow that Master Ilen gifted him for his moon blessing, and he'd heard her first scream. He had ran to the tree she was hiding in and sent three arrows into the beast's side, not enough to kill him of course, but just enough to scare him away, allowing him to call for help before kneeling down in front of the tree and carefully taking her out, carrying her back to camp in his arms.

Mahariel might have been deadly jealous, but Ashalle had raised her well, so as soon as she felt well enough, she had limped out of her guardian's aravel and found Fenarel to thank him sincerely. They sat together in front of the fire, Mahariel trusting Fenarel to dress her wound after it began leaking from her walking up to him. For a long time, they talked, honest about their feelings with a maturity uncommon for their age. But they were both orphans, hardened by life from birth, already too aware of how unfair and cruel it can be. So they vowed not to push the other away, and to instead stick together like the clan at large. From that day on, Mahariel had found her best friend, and so had Fenarel.

Ishal is smiling at her, his plump cheeks rose from the sharpness of the cold air, and what can she do but return the smile tenfold, feeling so blessed that he is here, with her, in her lowest moment. Signing quickly a _come here_ filled to bursting with her love, she gathers him under her arm, pressing him against her side.

Kneeling in front of their gods, mother and son pray for the lost soul of the most important man in their lives.

* * *

Duncan finds her before Alistair.

The last minutes are a blur of screaming and fighting, of trying her best to escape the death grip the three behemoths of a party he brought with him. The men are hulking beasts of muscle and no mercy to be found in their heart. They drag Mahariel away from Ishal, her tears a torture as she watches Ishal, held to the ground on his stomach by another guard as he screams for his mother to come back.

Maybe she passes out from the sheer trauma of being ripped away from her son, or maybe she's losing her mind, the hyperventilation and panic on the verge of knocking her unconscious. But when she finally regains a sense of her surrounding, she's laying on the cold marble of the ruins with the shem's disgusting face looming over her.

Mahariel is still being held down by the three guards, and no matter her attempts to escape their hold, she is no match in strength against three unnaturally strong shems. Duncan says something to her but the blood rushing through her ears, adrenaline and terror pumping through her veins, stop her from hearing anything he says. But she understands soon enough when a large cup is being held above her face.

She's sure that, if she had a voice, she would be _keening_ from the fear freezing her insides, the worry for Ishal, alone and afraid, of what would happen to him if she were to die from whatever this bastard shem wants to do to her. The pressure suddenly overwhelms her, and she begins sobbing uncontrollably, huge tremors wracking her body as Duncan peers, pitiless, into her terrified eyes, before gesturing to something outside of her view.

Massive hands block her sight and before she can process what's about to happen and clamp her jaw shut as hard as she can, the hands grab her face and pry her mouth open. With how hard she's resisting and the sheer tension in her body, on top of the brute strength of the hands, her jaw shatters under the pressure.

The pain is agonizing. Without an outlet for her anguish, no voice for her to scream her pain, Mahariel beings seizing, blood pooling in her mouth and chocking her. She can't breathe, no air coming through the gurgling blood foaming at the corner of her lips. The lack of oxygen is turning her brain into mush, slowly knocking her out.

She only has time to see Duncan pour the content of the cup into her mouth, before gesturing to the man holding her broken jaw to release her, before her eyes roll back into her skull and she falls unconscious.

She wakes up. The world is pain. Her whole body is burning with a fire she can't comprehend, the pyre in her face worst of all. She doesn't wake up.

She wakes up. Above her, a ceiling. For a second, she wonders about that, because this looks too solid to be the ceiling of any of the clan's aravels. Maybe they stopped in a village with good relations to their kin? But something is wrong. Missing.

_Ishal!_

Mahariel flies from her bed and into a sitting position before the thought can even finish forming into her mind. Her heart is racing faster than after a hunt, fear crushing her bones as she looks around frantically, searching for familiar copper hair.

Her silent whimpering is echoing in her throat, a vibration of sorrow the only thing her poor body can do to show her grief. Where is her son?

“Peace, daughter of the People. Aneth ara.”

Her head whips to the side, where a woman is standing in a place Mahariel is certain was empty before. The movement brings a shock of pain, jolting wound and memory alike.

_'Where is Ishal?'_ she signs, hectic, her hands a flurry of worry.

“He is safe and unharmed. I thought best not to have him here before I could explain everything that happened.”

Mahariel breathes a long sigh of relief, instinctively knowing she can trust this woman. Now that the panic has receded, she allows herself a longer look at the old shem standing next to the bed. And it becomes immediately apparent that the woman is not a shem.

Hesitantly, she forms signs she never had to use before.

_'Asha'bellanar?'_

The woman smiles. “Clever, child, well done. I admit it is a lovely sight to see my name spelled in the tongue of hands. It has been many moons since I last saw it, and I always enjoyed the company of the People. You are welcome in my home, fear not.”

_'Ma melava halani. Ma serannas.'_

Asha'bellanar inclines her head, accepting her thanks without a word. For the first time since she was taken from her clan, Mahariel gives herself the time to breathe. She knows she is in no danger in the company of Mythal'enaste. This is probably the safest she's been since before finding the ruins.

She can feel herself getting chocked up, something so common now she's not even sure to have the strength to reign it in. Mahariel jerks in surprise when a hand runs through her short hair, prompting her to look up.

“You have suffered greatly, elvhenan. I'm afraid this is not the end of your battles, but for now, allow yourself to rest. You have much to hear, and soon much to think about.”

_'What happened?' _she signs.

“You were brought to me by a Grey Warden. Your wounds were great and your state worsened by the Darkspawn blood they forced into you. He feared you wouldn't survive it, and leave your child.”

Mahariel frowns. '_How would the Wardens know you? And moreso, bring me to you instead of their mages?'_

Asha'bellanar looks away with a sigh. “I don't believe the Wardens know of me. However, this one encountered my daughter in the Wilds, and thus we were acquainted. He was right to bring you to me, as the mages wouldn't have been able to save you. But the mere fact he thought of it speaks of a greater tragedy to him than an opportunity.”

“Mahariel!” she jumps, startled, before the door of the hut slams open, revealing Alistair and in his arms, Ishal. “Thank the Maker, you're awake.”

“Mamae!”

Immediately, Mahariel brings her arms forward, beckoning Alistair to come closer, until he finally puts Ishal in her arms. She draws him into a tight hug, squeezing her son against her as much as she dares. Silently, she hides a tear of relief into his curly hair, before leaning back a little.

_'Are you alright?'_

Ishal nods, his little lips wobbling in distress. Mahariel doesn't pester him more, simply embracing him once more, his cheek resting on her breast as she rocks him gently. Assured that he's as comfortable as the circumstances allow, she looks back to Asha'bellanar.

“The King is dead, his army defeated, and the Grey Wardens all perished with him.”

Mahariel's eyes widen in astonishment, looking at Alistair in confirmation but his downcast eyes and red, chaffed cheeks say it all. He has been crying.

“I don't know what happened,” he says, voice cracking. “Duncan and I had an argument, I wanted him to leave you some time to take care of Ishalentarasyl'nin before the ceremony. But he refused, and when he went inside the tent, you were gone. Duncan sent a search party after you, we separated in groups and I went into the Wilds with two other recruits.”

“That's when they met Morrigan,” Asha'bellanar interrupts, not unkindly, probably referring to the daughter she talked about before.

Alistair's breath hitches, and he looks away, eyes filling with unshed tears. “When we came back...” He has to plaster his hand against his mouth, choking on a sob that he barely manages to swallow back. “The whole camp was overrun by darkspawns. There were bodies everywhere, the mages, the Sisters, the healers, everyone was dead. And in the valley below, nothing but corpses and the roaming of the horde.” Alistair angrily wipes away a treacherous tear. “I don't understand how they were able to crush our forces so soon. They never should have succeeded, or at the very least, the battle should have lasted for hours. But we were gone for no more than two hours and nothing was left of the army or the Wardens.”

“That infuriating Commander was amongst the victims,” Asha'bellanar says when it looks like Alistair won't keep going. “I had the misfortune of crossing his path on a handful of occasions in the past. He has been a nuisance, but he was competent. For that reason alone, his loss is a shame. From what your young friend said, it seems you now are the last two Wardens.”

Mahariel looks hurriedly between the two of them, almost not believing what she's hearing. If there is truly no one else left...

A bright grin splits her face in two, but disappears quickly when the pain has her wince, a hand coming up to massage her jaw.

“Ah, yes, I am sorry about that.”

Looking up, Mahariel finds a young woman standing in the doorway, her clothing rich in colours and fabrics. She looks a bit out of place in comparison to Asha'bellanar, but Mahariel isn't so surprised by the choice the Wild Witch has made. It is sensible to want to blend in, especially when those you're up against are of the shemlen kind. Maybe her daughter, as it is who Mahariel assumes the young woman is, doesn't have to be as weary of them recognizing her. In any case, Mahariel can't stop herself from finding the garment beautiful, with its deep colours and glittering gems and pearls.

“I provided first aid when your friend brought you to us, as I feared you would not last until we got you to Mother. I am not as skilled a healer as she, however, and my talents were found lacking in that instance. Although your jaw is healed, the bruising has yet to completely disappear and you should be sore for some days. I would refrain from talking as much as possible, when it is most convenient for you.”

Mahariel snorts in laughter, careful not to smile too much. Still holding Ishal with one arm, she raises the other and quickly sign a few words of introduction as well as her thanks for the healer's time and effort. She raises an eyebrow in surprise, before giving Mahariel a wry smile.

“Well, it appears that will not be a problem.”

_'Ma serannas, Asha'bellanar. For your healing and your hospitality. Clan Sabrae is in your debt, and I will be honoured to provide any assistance you might need in the future, as soon as I'm back where I belong.'_

“I accept your thanks and promise, child of the People. Yours are an honourable kind. Be safe on your journey, it will be a long one. Your clan settled deep in the Brecilian forest but they do not plan to move for some moon cycles. I believe haste should bring you to them in time.”

“Mamae... home?”

Mahariel smiles kindly to her son, pushing the pain away. _'We are, fenor. As soon as mamae is feeling good, we're leaving.'_

“I'm sorry, what?”

Mahariel hurriedly looks up at the outraged face of the shem, having forgotten about him for a moment. Trying her best not to draw attention to it, her left hand crawls towards the bedside table where a kitchen knife rests. She likes Alistair, may June forgive her, but if he stands in her way...

“You're a Warden! You can't leave, not now! We have- we need to-”

Asha'bellanar laughs, mean and short. “You must be jesting, child. Did you not realize what happened to her when you brought her to us with those wounds?”

Alistair splutters, looking frantically between Mahariel and the Wild Witch. Lightning quick, Mahariel grabs the knife and hides it in her lap, where Ishal takes it without a word. She signs her thanks against his belly, not taking her eyes away from the shem for a second.

“That's not- you don't know what you're talking about!”

Mahariel angry breathing is loud enough that he turns towards her, eyes wide when he sees how furious she is. _'Well _I_ do! Your precious commander and his pigs dragged me away from my son and beat me to death! They shattered my jaw into a million pieces and held the broken parts wide open so they could pour their poison into my mouth. I fucking know what I'm talking about!'_ She's panting, seeing only red as her heart beats wildly against her ribcage. _'Your shem took me from my home, destroyed my only chance of looking for my Bonded, put us through hell to get us to a battle I had no place in and wouldn't even let me care for my sick child! And when I finally found the time to be with him, he took him away from my arms and hurt him when he wouldn't quietly let me be beaten into an inch of my life. So tell me, shemlen, why _the fuck_ would I not go back to my clan?'_

Alistair doesn't say anything, watching her with a stricken face. He looks like he's been punched in the stomach repeatedly by his own mother. _Good_, Mahariel thinks without an inch of remorse.

_'Thank you for translating,' _she signs to Asha'bellanar, who looks pleasantly surprised that she noticed something was amiss.

“Humans need to be put back in their place, once in a while. Now, when are you leaving?”

Mahariel bites her lip, suddenly worried. _'I hate to impose on you any more than I already have, but-'_

Asha'bellanar waves her hand. “Nonsense, of course you may stay until you've recovered. Truly, this is the most excitement this house has seen in a long time.”

Mahariel smiles shyly, offering her thanks one more time._ 'Am I allowed to leave the bed?'_

Morrigan uncrosses her arms. “I believe you should be fine, your ribs and knees were successfully put back together. Do not stray too far, as you will feel tired soon, and your ankle is still bruised as well, but you are free to go as you please.”

Mahariel nods, carefully extracting herself from the bed, Ishal helpfully getting off her lap so she can find her balance. When she's standing straight and stable, he hands her the knife with a toothless grin. Mahariel chuckles, and puts it back where it came from. She hears Alistair sucking in a breath outside of her sight, having likely realized what she had been planning to defend herself. Mahariel gives him a hard look, daring him to make the wrong move, but his head hangs low in shame and he remains silent.

Without a second look for him, she opens her arms for Ishal to jump into them, and takes a few wobbly steps away from the bed.

_'My backpack?'_

“Recovered by the young Warden. I have left it near the door outside,” Morrigan answers.

Mahariel nods her thanks and keeps going, slowly and carefully. A moment later, she disappears through the door and into the Korcari Wilds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know in the comments, I'm looking forward to your opinions and theories, what did you like the most in this chapter? I decided to make Flemeth a more "sympathetic" figure to Mahariel, mainly because with the added canon of DA2 and DAI, we know she's Mythal and as such, is a hugely influencal and important figure to the Dalish. And I love her, so I wanted her to be closer to the Warden and closer to the Dalish in general.
> 
> For more writing, I'm on tumblr @dimancheetoile (and I'm doing quarantine commissions, both art and writing, so if you like what I do, consider looking into this, because my family lost their source of income through the quarantine and my only way of bringing money home is through this kind of work) and if you want to see exclusive fanart for this fic, as well as DA art in general, I have a DA-centric tumblr @tamlenslifematters


End file.
